I met my 90-year-old self at the dermatologist’s office.

I met my 90-year-old self at the dermatologist’s office.

I was early.

She was even earlier.

I wore my hair down, unwashed, curly, and frizzy.

Her hair was also unwashed—thinning, but still curly and frizzy.

I had my ripped jeans on from 2019—hers were also from 2019, with a few more holes.

She squealed and nearly cracked a rib when she hugged me. She knew in her 40s how important upper-body strength is for women.

I laughed, relieved.

We sit in the waiting room. She fills out the two-page intake form. “How many times are they going to ask me if I have any allergies?” She turns to me.

“Save your goddamn money because no one has medical insurance anymore. My monthly mole check-ups and biopsies ain’t cheap.”

This scares me. And makes me sad. Moles will be with me until I die. And I bought a piggy bank later that day.

Ninety looks good. She’s light and unburdened. Way lighter and unburdened than I look now in my 50s.

I ask her how she looks so rested and at ease.

“Stop worrying about overpaying the Taskrabbit handyman that assembled the patio furniture. Or why a best friend stopped calling. Or why you make yourself nauseous thinking up something funny to post on Instagram that doesn’t make you look like a douche. It’s nonsense. You know this. It causes premature aging.”

I scan her face. And I immediately stop worrying.

Her name is called. She stands without help—yay Pilates, and follows the nurse into an exam room.

I want to be just like her. And I keep doing what I’m doing with a few minor adjustments. 

Turns out, I already live like that ninety-year-old.